Читать книгу Falling For The Venetian Billionaire - Rebecca Winters - Страница 12

CHAPTER THREE

GINGER COULDN’T HELP staring at him. “The likeness between you and your brother is so striking, it’s like two sides of the same coin.”

“Growing up people thought we were twins even though there’s a three-year difference in our ages. What’s your first name, signora?”

“Ginger.”

“Like the spice.”

A soft laugh escaped. “I’ve learned the Italians don’t use it much except in the southern part of your country.”

One black brow lifted. “It sounds like you’ve been here awhile.”

“Five months.”

He studied her for a moment. “Dr. Manukyan introduced you the other week as a Californian professor who’s an expert on Lord Byron.”

“Maybe one day I’ll attain that status once I’ve received my doctorate. But yes, I teach classes on the romance writers of the early nineteenth century at Vanguard University in Costa Mesa.”

“I traveled to that area years ago with friends. You come from a beautiful part of the US.”

“Considering where you come from, that’s a generous admission.”

“Not at all.” He cocked his dark, handsome head. “I can tell you that you’ve come to the right person to learn about Byron’s passion for the oppressed as well as his genius for words.” Ginger couldn’t have said it better. “How long are you going to be in Venice?”

The first time he’d asked her that question, it could have been an idle one. But not this time. Afraid to sound too interested—like a certain starry-eyed widow she knew—Ginger said, “I’m not sure. My research leads me many places.”

“Considering we’re talking about Lord Byron, it would.” Something told her Vittorio Della Scalla probably knew as much on the subject as his brilliant brother. “His journeys were legendary. Besides all the travel, Byron accomplished a massive amount of work during his short thirty-six years.”

She nodded. “Since I’ve been in Italy, I’ve decided Byron was a man with nine lives.”

His eyes smiled. “A very apt description. If you’re returning to Venice after your meeting with my brother, I’ll be happy to give you a ride. As you already know, I live there and I’m still anxious to show you around.”

The man’s charm was lethal. Ginger swallowed hard. “That’s very kind of you. I don’t know how long I’m going to be, but thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He got to his feet. “A presto, signora.”

It meant see you soon, and sent an adrenaline rush through her. She’d lost track of time while they’d been talking. Without waiting for his brother, who’d just emerged from the doorway, Vittorio strode down the length of the courtyard on his long powerful legs and disappeared.

Ginger knew her cheeks were flushed when Father Giovanni asked her to return to the studio with him. He made no mention of his brother.

They discussed the problem of Father Pasquale Aucher, Byron’s teacher who’d instructed him in Armenian. Aucher was offended because in the preface of the grammar book, the poet referenced the Turks, who’d kept the Armenian people under their rule. Which is why he didn’t give Byron credit for the book, and the poet took it badly. Eventually Father Aucher added Byron’s name to the grammar, but not as a sign that he’d done an expert job.

Following that conversation, they discussed the letter Byron had written to his English publisher, John Murray, in 1817 about the time he’d spent at the Armenian monastery.

Before Ginger had to leave because the next tourist group had arrived, Father Giovanni quoted the last few lines of the letter from memory, lines that had become famous. The last line Byron wrote about life in the monastery made an impact. “‘“There is another and a better” even in this life.’”

Obviously Father Giovanni, who’d come from such an aristocratic family, had found a better life here, too.

Ginger thanked him for making this visit so memorable. She’d finished her research here and left the building, not knowing if Father Giovanni’s brother was truly waiting for her. She felt jittery with anticipation as she walked past another group of tourists to reach the dock.

“Signora Lawrence?” She’d know that voice anywhere and looked to the right.

Vittorio Della Scalla was standing in a sleek-looking blue and silver ski boat. Despite his modern clothes, she could imagine him one of the fierce Venetian warriors of the fifteenth century who’d opened up the Mediterranean trade routes in defiance of the Ottomans and Spaniards.